The night grew ever darker. Thick veils of black cloud drove their rumbling waves farther and farther across the sky with each passing moment, until at last even the light of the final star was swallowed by gloom. Rain washed unceasingly over the stone paving of the streets, the water running with loud splashing from the eaves into the shallow gutters below. Squinting lanterns swayed in the wind with a soft creak, their pale light quickly lost in the narrow alleys threading between the buildings. Some six dozen houses lined the roads, several of them with upper storeys, and though a few—mostly those standing at the town’s edge—were closer to huts than proper dwellings, the community allowed no one to fall into poverty. No one went hungry, no one was left to shiver through the night cold, and not a single child lacked care. Anyone wishing to settle here had to agree to these unwritten rules. This land had seen too much suffering already. No one was left behind.

  Though the population was small enough that everyone knew one another, it was still the largest settlement within sight for many miles, and so the locals referred to it among themselves as a town. Two broad roads crossed at its centre, and travellers called it the Crossroad. The surrounding countryside could be comfortably traversed within a day or two. In every direction stretched rolling meadows, wooded groves, and tilled fields, threaded by narrow dirt paths winding toward small villages, while at the foot of the slopes here and there lay lakes of varying size, half-hidden from view. The faint lights of distant hamlets flickered like candles in the darkness, until beyond the fields the land faded into untouched wilderness, and the wilderness into the rocky, shadow-blue roots of high mountain peaks—or into the horizon itself.

  By day, thanks to the crossing of the roads, the town saw a steady, if sparse, flow of traffic. Fertile soil and forests provided food and raw materials, while modest trade supplied all other necessities, allowing the inhabitants to live in humble comfort. An inn had been built at the very centre of the town, where the main roads met, serving at once as lodging for travellers and as the heart of local communal life. On rest days many came from the surrounding villages as well, to meet acquaintances and hear the latest tales left behind by those passing through. Though life in this corner of the world passed quietly and without great change, most who lived here would not have abandoned their home for anything.

  A softly undulating, yellowish light filtered from the inn’s windows, behind whose opaque glass the blurred shadows of passing figures occasionally drifted by. On the lower floor stood some four dozen chairs, and, as had become customary on this day of the week, most were occupied. Those who found no place at the tables stood chatting by the windows, sipping their drinks. The voices of the various groups blended into a rolling murmur, mingling with the music of gently plucked strings and filling every corner of the hall. The uneven dark wood panelling of the walls was adorned with images of far-off lands, old swords, and coats of arms, among which the mounted trophy of a stag silently watched over the company. In the fireplace opposite the entrance, logs crackled beneath the dancing waves of flame. The many small lights of the chandelier fashioned from a wagon wheel, and of the candleholders hanging from the wooden pillars, illuminated a great variety of faces.

  Blacksmiths boasted of their finest work while explaining the craft with practiced authority to their apprentices, who nodded eagerly, glancing sideways at the girls watching them with smiling, whispered remarks. The sun-browned faces of the farmers bore contented grins as they cheerfully drank the fruits of their labour. Their wives, pleasantly light-headed, laughed and waved away their husbands’ jokes, while elsewhere emboldened young men teased girls who laughed with blushing faces. Here and there, even a shy kiss was exchanged. Merchants and travellers leaned close over their tables, tracing invisible maps across the knotted planks with their fingers as they stroked their chins and debated the continuation of their journeys. At the back tables, a few armed men made merry. One of them, lute in hand and a wine-dazed smile on his face, accompanied with music the tale of a companion who, swinging an imaginary sword through the air, recounted his latest skirmish, every word met with wide-eyed amazement by those seated around him. Everyone was lost in the cheer of their own company, in their own small world—or in the curves of the ladies perched upon their laps.

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  Behind the counter, the innkeeper wiped wooden vessels with a thoughtful air, while a young lad and girl hurried eagerly between the tables. The boy, striving to carry as many tankards as his fingers could manage in a contest with himself, stole glances at the girl from time to time. Around the long counter, strict order prevailed. Candles flickered upon it at measured intervals; beneath it, clean wooden bowls and cups were stacked high; before it, long-legged stools stood in disciplined rows. At the far end stood two smaller casks, their taps aligned with precise parallel, while much larger barrels waited along the wall to be broached. Upon a long, heavy tabletop laid across their tops were arranged meats, breads, vegetables, and fruit, while shelves held bottles of various sizes standing in respectable order. Between the stones of the hearth, a fragrant stew steamed in a heavy pot. Beside it, a small table offered silent company, upon which a pile of smeared dishes waited patiently for the water warming in the nearby tub.

  Loud laughter, hiccups, and other unseemly bodily noises frequently coloured the rolling din. Plates, bowls, tankards, and cups appeared on the tables in ever greater number—mostly tankards and cups. As the evening grew merrier, more than a few gazes lost their clarity, as did their speech. The less clearly people understood one another at a table, the more vigorously and unanimously they nodded in agreement, and the louder—and more numerous—the voices speaking at once became. People vanished with increasing regularity through the door leading to the rear yard, returning either with honest relief upon their faces or with deepening discomfort. Some climbed the stairs to the upper floor to rest in the modest rooms meant for a single night; others, realising that sleep would be poor amidst the noise and hardly worth the effort, came back down. The travellers, though weary from the long road behind them, decided to allow themselves this time to sink into carefree, cheerful abandon. Tomorrow became tomorrow’s concern. Nor did any of the locals set off for home, for the following day was the region’s rest day, and now was the time for revelry. The sultry warmth and smoky, alcohol-laden scent rising from the hearth, the pipes, and the bodies of the people seeped into every corner of the hall, as pervasive as the inviting mood itself.

  All of it was blown suddenly into sharp awareness by a rush of cold air. A hooded figure closed the entrance door behind him. The clamour fell away, and as was to be expected, everyone looked up at once—some with interest, others with flat, hazy, or openly judgemental gazes. No one had been expecting anyone else. Whoever had not arrived by now would not be coming later, and no respectable traveller would be on the road at such a late hour, when even the sun had long since gone to rest.